Page 44

Story: The Elf Beside Himself

Goddamn it.

What the fuck was I supposed to do? Taavi was the love of my life, and yet I was terrible for him.

His tongue teased at my lips, and I couldn’t help but let the kiss deepen, bending into him, my hands sliding up his sides as my body reacted to his, the loose fabric of my shorts becoming rather less loose. God, I wanted him.

But that was a bad idea, for several reasons. First, we were supposed to go over to Elliot’s, and we had to swing by the grocery store so Taavi could pick up enchilada ingredients, as requested. It was a tossup whether Charlie’s or Aldi was going to have what he needed… small town northern Wisconsin doesn’t typically have a lot of authentic Mexican ingredients. I was dubious that we’d find either queso fresco or oaxaca, but we might be able to find a Mexican blend in shredded form.

Second, we were in my childhood room in my parents’ house, and there is very little that will kill a mood faster than the idea that my early-riser parents might hear any sort of sexy activity. Ew.

And third, the more I touched him, the harder I was going to find it to let him go. And he didn’t deserve to have to put up with any more of my bullshit.

I couldn’t decide if it was a bigger dick move to explain that here or to wait until we’d gone back home to Richmond when he’d be trapped in an apartment with me.

Fuck.

I broke off the kiss, leaning back and feeling like a treacherous monster when I saw the soft smile on his lips—an expression that was almost immediately wiped away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked me.

Because of fucking course Taavi could tell that I was freaking out. He might not know why, but Taavi Camal has always been able to read me like an open fucking book.

I shook my head. “Not worth going into,” I answered, hoping he’d attribute my mood to the murder of my best friend’s dad.

He cocked his head to the side, studying me.

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I told him—and that was abso-fucking-lutely true. I didn’t want to talk about it. Not now, and not ever. I was going to have to, but that didn’t mean Iwantedto.

He sighed, a shadow sliding over his fine features. “Fine.”

He let go of me, and the loss of his fingers from the elastic of my shorts weirdly felt like a punch to the solar plexus.

Fucking hell.

I made myself go shower, brush my teeth, brush my too-short hair, and get dressed in jeans, a long-sleeve t-shirt, and one of several sweaters my mother had stuffed in the dresser with little cedar wedges to keep the moths and the smell out.

Taavi had already been gone when I’d gotten back to my—our—room.

I went to grab the bowl from the top of the dresser only to discover that it wasn’t there. Presumably because Taavi was considerate and kind, which I so very obviously wasn’t.

Fuck.

I didn’t feel any better when I got down to the kitchen and found my mother happily chatting with Taavi, who was helping her chop fresh herbs for her fancy cheese omelets made with brie, havarti, and gruyere. He seemed completely at ease, my mother was practically humming, and even my dad looked like he was enjoying the morning at the table, the paper—who the fuck reads an actual paper anymore? My dad, clearly—open in front of him and a mug of coffee beside his hand.

It was so goddamn domestic that I should have wanted to vomit, but it just made me deeply sad. Because I wanted this. I wanted Taavi to be a part of my family. I wanted my parents to adore him.

I just couldn’t be trusted with him.

I fucking break everything I touch, and I couldn’t stand the thought that everything might include Taavi.

Because hewaseverything. To me, anyway.

The fact that he was wearing one of my old sweaters—one of the ones from the bottom dresser drawer that still held clothes from when I was short and human—damn near broke my heart all over again. Not because he’d taken my old clothes—they sure as shit didn’t fit me anymore—but because he was wearingmyclothes.

I understood what it meant for a shifter to wear clothes that didn’t smell right to them. Taavi wasbeyondfussy about what his clothes smelled like. He’d never in a million years wear something new to him without washing it at least twice, whether it came from the thrift store (in which case, yes, wash the fuck out of it) or brand-new from Target.

The fact that he was wearing my old sweater meant that he was intentionally wearing something that almost certainly still smelled something like me. Because hewantedto smell like me.

God-fucking-damnit.